"How do you do, uncle Bacchus?" she said as she approached an old, gray- haired, very black man in a corner. He rose to his feet and shewed a tall, slim figure, not bent at all, though the indications of his face pointed to very advanced age. He bowed profoundly, and with dignity, before the lovely lady who had extended her hand to him, and then he took the hand.
"Nearer home, madam," he said; "a year nearer home."
The hand trembled, and the voice; yet the mental tone of it was very firm.
"You are not in a hurry to leave us?"
"It's better on de oder side, madam."
"Yes, that is true! And it is good to know there is an 'other side,' isn't it? Are you comfortable here, uncle Bacchus?"
'"Comfortable—" he repeated. "I don' know. I'm sittin' at de gates, waitin' till de Lord say open 'em; and 'pears I'm lookin' dat way all de time. Dis yer's a waitin' place. A waitin' place."
"Yes, but I want you to be comfortable while you are waiting. What can I do for you? The dear Lord has sent me to ask you."
He smiled a little, a very sweet smile, though the lips were so withered on which it came.
"Don't want for not'ing, madam. Dis yer'll do to wait in. When I get home, I'll have all I want; but it's up dere."